Memory is at best a shattered glass,
The jagged pieces strewn across the floor, and
I don’t have the time or patience to
Fit and glue all the pieces together.
I know it’s there, the memory I seek, and
Eventually it rears its head like an index card in
The card catalog of an ancient library
That holds no books.
I see faces but no names, strangers, and
I tick, tick, tick through the alphabet . . .
Hoping to trigger and cement
A neural connection that sometimes comes.
I used to worry that the lapses
Might lead to the end of me, but
Whatever the state of my mind,
My imagination will create, through my pen,
All I need to know and believe.
What is truly real anyway?
I close my eyes, calm my restless heart, and
The image, recalled, comes into focus:
I see hair the color of the dark chocolate paste under
The outer shell of a walnut and
Feel ghostly tingling in my fingers as fine
Threads of silk pass through them.
A mask of porcelain,
Tinted by a sun
South of the border,
Eyebrows that come
Together as one when
Left to their own devices
Of natural progression.
A mouth so perfect
It need not speak
To tell me everything
That is in the heart.
And eyes that lead me
To a place of comfort,
Pigmented with hues of the
Mountainsides of Montana,
Reflecting the meaningful
Along with the meaning,
Flashing a sparkle, a glint of
Light from the Big Bang,
Reminding me of everyone
I have ever loved, and
That image will remain
With me forever.